


The Space Between Us

by rosesupposes



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, I think?, based off Newsies live, mostly?, this is gonna be a long one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesupposes/pseuds/rosesupposes
Summary: A collection of canon era drabbles that take place in the year(ish) before and the year(ish) after the Strike. Daily experiences in the lives of the newsies of Lower Manhattan.Chapter 5: Henry, Mush (Or, Mush Asks Henry About Delicatessens)Chapter 4: Sniper, Romeo (Or, Why Sniper Didn't Scab)Chapter 3: Mike, Ike (Or, Mike and Ike Try an Ice Cream Sandwich)Chapter 2: Race, Albert, Finch (Or, Albert Needs to Stop Making Bets)Chapter 1: Specs, Albert, Race, Henry (Or, How Henry Became a Newsie)





	1. Specs, Albert, Race, Henry (Or, How Henry Became a Newsie)

**April 1898** (a little over a year before the strike)

“Race, Al!” Specs called from his perch on the top of the distribution center platform. He’d been on the lookout for them for almost half an hour and he was ready to get out of the sun. They looked up when they heard their names, catching sight of Specs and grinning. “C’mon, we’s having a meeting at Jacobi’s.”

“Yeah?” Race asked, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “What’s got Cowboy worked up?”

Specs jumped down to meet them, slinging an arm about either boy. “Not sure but he went to Brooklyn and Queens today so must be Spot Conlon.”

“Shoulda taken Racer to Brooklyn,” Albert said, “since he and Spot is such good friends.”

“Aw, shut it, Al, just ’cuz Spot let me keep selling at the races when he took over-”

Specs stopped suddenly, jerking the two boys with him to a stop as well. “Hey, ya hear that?”

“Not all o’ us got your ears and eyes, Specs.”

“Shut it,” Specs said, suddenly turning into the alley around the corner from the distribution gate. He danced around various forgotten crates and barrels as Albert and Race followed. Whatever noise he had heard had stopped but he continued down the alley until he stopped in front of a pile of crates, considering it carefully. Race and Albert watched silently, nodding when Specs turned to them and gestured for them to keep quiet. He pulled away a crate at the front of the pile, revealing a little cave created by the other crates in the stack. Instead of empty space, there was a kid, 12 or 13 years old by Race’s estimation. He was huddled under the crates and judging by the general state of his little hideout, Race guessed he’d been there a couple days.

“Don’t move,” the kid said. “I gotta knife and I ain’t ’fraid to use it.” The kid’s voice cracked at a little at the end and his face went red. Race felt bad for him; he knew the feeling, what with his own voice having just settled.

“We ain’t here to hurt ya, kid. You been sleepin’ here?”

The kid looked put off, like he’d expected all three of them to back away when he’d threatened them. Albert and Race both trusted Specs though and he hadn’t backed away so things were probably fine. The kid clearly needed a place to stay and they all knew where there was an open bed. “So what if I was?”

“Nothin’ wrong with it,” Specs says, casually moving closer to the kid. “We’s been there, too. Just wanna know if you’s wantin’ to sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Albert would hesitate to call the bunks at the lodging house ‘real beds’ but he knew they were heaven compared to some crates in an alley.

The boy moved a bit out from his crate and the three newsies really saw him for the first time. He was definitely on the young side though probably not as young as the twins since his voice was cracking. His skin was darker, like Romeo’s, and his dark hair curled under an old but well cared for hat. His clothes were in a similar state; they were dirty but like the dirt had gathered over a few days rather than a longer period of time. It hadn’t been crushed into the fabric yet. He looked new to the streets.

“You mean that?”

“Sure. The lodging house we’s at gives ya a bed and some food for six cents a day.”

His face fell. “I ain’t got six cents a day.”

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it, kid,” Albert said, gesturing grandly. “When you’s a newsie you’ll make enough.”

“But I’m not a newsie?”

“Ain’t hard to be one if you’s wantin’ to.” The boy nodded. “I’m Specs. This is Racetrack and Albert. Got a name?”

“Henry.”

“Alright, Henry. C’mon. We’s got a newsie meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at makenomistakeoncewewin.


	2. Race, Albert, Finch (Or, Albert Needs to Stop Making Bets)

******September 1898** (almost a year before the strike)

Racetrack was almost back to the lodging house when he sensed someone following after him. They probably hadn’t been following him for very long but Race picked his pace up a bit, walking purposefully rather than just meandering back towards Duane Street, just in case it was some bulls looking for a reason to toss a kid to the Refuge. When he chanced a glance back a half minute later, he was relieved to find it was just his dumb friends.

“Race!” Al called out, waving at him and running towards him. Finch trailed behind him lazily, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “Race, we needs your help.”

“What’d you do this time?” Race asked, slowing down so Al and eventually Finch would fall into pace beside him.

“We needs to settle a bet.”

Race looked between Albert and Finch, now on either side of him. Albert looked determined but Finch looked smug and Race could guess that Finch already knew he had won but Albert was still fighting him on it. “Well, what’s the bet then?”

Finch grinned. “Al bet me a nickel he’d outsell me if we switched spots.”

Racetrack’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at Albert in disbelief. “You bet  _ Finch _ you could outsell him?” Everyone knew that Finch was one of the best sellers at the lodging house, almost keeping pace with Jack and easily outselling even the cutest of the littles. Albert wasn’t bad but he had bad luck choosing spots. He would be an idiot to make a  _ selling  _ bet against Finch. Honestly, it was exactly the kind of thing Albert would do.

“He's always got the good spot,” Albert explained. “Anyone who had his spot could make a killing.”

Race rolled his eyes. “So what do you need me for? Who sold more?”

“I did,” Finch said.

“Finch keeps miscounting,” Albert insisted.

It took one last look at Finch’s face for Race to know that Finch had not miscounted and Al was just being particularly stubborn. “Okay, let’s get back and then I’ll count it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at makenomistakeoncewewin


	3. Mike, Ike (Or, Mike and Ike Try an Ice Cream Sandwich)

**August 1899** (a month or so after the strike)

Mike peeked around the corner just as Ike came running around it. They almost collided but Ike stopped just as Mike pulled pack and they didn't even touch each other. "Did ya get it?"

Ike grinned at him, holding out their prize, Finch's slingshot. "Course, I did."

Mike grabbed it, studying it intensely, as if it held some kind of secret. "He see you?"

Ike shook his head. "Not when I was grabbin' it but I saw 'im comin' up the stairs when I was leavin'. We should go." Ike pushed at his brother's shoulder a little and took off running. Mike followed him a few blocks until they were almost to the park in the Bowery that was their final destination.

"Bet you can't hit that bird's nest?" Ike asked as they entered the park.

"Bet I can," Mike said, fishing a small rock out of his pocket. They'd both been collecting pebbles all day in anticipation of their adventure. He was confident as he took his aim, remembering all the tips Finch had given him when he'd taught the younger boy to use his slingshot. When he released, the rock soared through the air, towards the birds nest... and missing it by a good six inches. It thunked against the tree trunk instead and Mike stuck his tongue out at his brother as Ike laughed.

"Told ya so."

"Ah, c'mon, you can't do any betta."

"Sure can," Ike said, already reaching into his pocket for a rock. He grabbed the slingshot and, just as confident as Mike, aimed at the bird's nest. His rock hit it hard and both boys were rather disappointed that no birds came flying out.

They took turns daring each other to hit things until they were out of rocks and the sun was starting to set. They’d each hit seven of their targets and, with no clear winner to their game, they decided they should probably go back to the lodging house. They'd told Jack that they wouldn't be back until after sunset but the older boy had been on edge about the other boys being out late ever since the strike.

The streets were clearing out as the sun was setting but there were still a few pushcart vendors milling around near the park, trying to get some last sales before the day was over. Ike pointed out one they were familiar with – a man peddling ice cream who bought the evening edition off them most days and sometimes even traded an ice cream for a paper at the height of summer. “Reckon we’ve got a few cents for some ice cream?”

Mike had always been the better of the two of them at math and it took him only a few seconds to work out how much they’d made, how much they needed for a bunk, and how much they could spare for an ice cream. “Sure, we got two cents, I think.”

As they got closer, the man recognized them, waving and smiling brightly. “Hullo, boys, what can I do you for? Would you like to try my new ice cream sandwiches?”

Mike wrinkled his nose. “Ice cream on a sandwich? Sounds… soggy.”

“Well, I wanna try one,” Ike said, pushing Mike’s shoulder. “How much is it, mister?”

“For you boys? Two cents.”

Ike turned his brother, pouting. “C’mon, Mike, it’ll be fun.”

“Okay, fine,” Mike grumbled, pulling two pennies from his pocket and handing them to the man. “One ice cream sandwich, please.”

The man smiled at them, eyes twinkling. He pulled a mold from his cart and placed a thin wafer cookie in the bottom. He reached into his cart again and spread some ice cream over the wafer before adding another cookie on top. He flipped the whole thing out of the mold, handing it to Ike. “There ya go, boys. One original ice cream sandwich. Enjoy that now.”

“Thanks, mister!”

The boys sat on a bench at the park, taking turns biting into the delicious sandwich. Neither one had ever had anything like it and it was absolutely delicious. The sun had set by the time they were finished.

“We should get back before Jack comes lookin'. You can tell him why we’s late,” Mike said as they started walking.

“Fine,” Ike said, grinning. “But you gotta put Finch’s slingshot back.” He pulled the slingshot from his pocket and pushed it into Mike’s hands, taking off down the street.

“Hey!” Mike protested, before sprinting after his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might be my favorite of the bunch I've written so far. Bet you didn't know ice cream sandwiches were invented in 1899 by a street food vendor.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at makenomistakeoncewewin.


	4. Sniper, Romeo (Or, Why Sniper Didn't Scab)

**September 1899** (a few months after the strike)

Sniper was headed back to the laundry when he spotted a familiar cap at the mouth of an alleyway. There was a little heart embroidered at the back, courtesy of Buttons, so Sniper knew it was Romeo's. He reached down to pick it up, because the kid probably didn't have the money for a new hat. Sniper honestly didn't know where Romeo would have even gone without his hat.

He was about to continue on his way when he heard muffled noise from further in the alley. He should probably have just ignored it, especially considering the setting sun and the fast approaching night, but something told him not to. As he darted further into the alleyway, between a haberdashery and a bakery, the sound became more and more clear. It was still muffled, apparently coming from behind a stack of empty wooden crates but it sounded like someone was crying.

When he checked behind the crates, Sniper got his answer about Romeo. The kid was slumped against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees. He was covered in mud and blood and his nose was actively bleeding but he wasn’t doing anything to staunch it. As much as he didn’t want the kid hurt in a random alley by himself, Sniper almost wished he hadn’t turned into the alleyway. He was already late and he was no good at crying kids or the aftermath of fights; he was just good at starting them. 

“Sn-sniper?” Romeo blubbered, looking up at Sniper through- well, shit- a swelling eye. 

“Yeah, kid. You got soaked good. Who got ya?”

“Oscar and Morris.” Sniper clenched his fists. Those two should have known better than to soak one of the littles and Romeo was practically still a little. “My nose won’t stop and my shirt’s all bloody and I lost my hat and it’s gettin’ late and Racer and Jack is already mad at me cuz I almost missed Kloppman’s curfew yesterday and- and-“ and Romeo dissolved into sobs again. 

Sniper had no idea what to do about the kid panicking but he knew there was at least one problem he could fix. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and knelt next to Romeo. “C’mon, let me see your nose.”

Despite his bruising eye, Romeo’s nose didn’t appear to be broken. They sat mostly in silence as Sniper pinched his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Once the flow was staunched, Sniper gingerly wiped away as much of the dirt and grime from Romeo’s face as he could, though much of it would be a lost cause until they could get some water. Finally, he stood, pulling Romeo up with him. “Alright, c’mon, kid. Let’s get you back to Kelly and Higgins.”

“They’re gonna be mad at me.”

Sniper had to put effort into not rolling his eyes. As if Higgins or Kelly would ever actually get mad at Romeo. “No they ain’t. Bet ya they’s worried about you right now.

“You think so?” Romeo looked up at Sniper, tears in his eyes.

“For sure, kid. Let’s get ya back to the lodging house. Did they get your legs?” 

Romeo sniffed and nodded. “My ankle hurts.”

“Alright,” Sniper said, pulling Romeo’s arm over his shoulders. “Get on.” 

“Why are you being so nice?”

Sniper rolled his eyes. “Just get on my back, kid.”

Romeo listened this time, clambering onto Sniper’s back. The kid weighed next to nothing and it was easy enough to get him back to the lodging house. They were maybe halfway there when Sniper’s silence failed to keep Romeo silent as well.

“Sniper?”

“What?”

Romeo hesitated.

“Spit it out, kid.”

“Why’d ya scab in the strike?” Romeo asked. At least that’s what Sniper thought he asked. It came out all smushed like ‘whydyascabinthestrike.’

Sniper was glad Romeo couldn’t see his face. “Didn’t scab.”

“Yeah, but you were gonna.”

“But I didn’t.” That shut Romeo up for a few more minutes but Sniper could feel how miserable the kid was so eventually he started talking again. “My pa didn’t want me to stop sellin’.”

“Oh. Okay.” Romeo seemed satisfied with this answer and Sniper was satisfied to leave it at that but Romeo was never quiet for long. “Why’d you strike then?”

Sniper didn’t really know how to answer that. There was the easy answers- he’d thought the boys were gonna soak him if he scabbed or he’d actually believed what Kelly and Jacobs had gone on about. There were other more complicated ones, the things he can’t explain to Romeo- how he’d almost reveled in the chance to do something his father had told him not to and how he’d known deep in his bones how important the strike would be. All of them were true but some were more true than others. It was two months after the strike and he was still figuring out for himself why he’d done it. The aftermath hadn’t been pretty but he had plenty of excuses for bruises after the strike had soured.

He settled on something akin to a joke. “Couldn’t let the Delanceys think it was okay to just soak all yous like that.”

“Oh.” Romeo was quiet the rest of the way to the lodging house. By the time they got there, Sniper could feel the kid’s head laying heavy on his shoulder and assumed the kid was falling asleep. 

“Alright, kid, last stop on this train. Better go find Kelly and see if Finch or Kenny’s around to fix ya up.”

Romeo clambered off Sniper’s back. “Thanks.” He yawned. “Wish I knew where my hat fell off.”

Sniper pulled Romeo’s hat from his back pocket and set it on the younger boy’s head. “Better keep an eye on that.”

“I will.” Romeo beamed at him and then turned to head into the lodging house.

Sniper watched him enter and then looked to the sky, where the sun had almost completely set. He was going to be in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at makenomistakeoncewewin.


	5. Henry, Mush (Or, Mush Asks Henry About Delicatessens)

**June 1898** (a little over a year before the strike)

Henry and Mush were sweeping up the entryway. Kloppman was in his office. A couple of the other guys were spread throughout the lodging house, staying back from selling for the day to help Kloppman clean in exchange for not having to pay the lodging fee for the night. Henry hadn't done it before in the several months he'd been at the lodging house but the other boys said it was a good deal and an easier day than selling. Henry's new life as a newsie was exhausting and he'd be a fool not to jump on a deal like that. So he had. And, yeah, it was slower and not quite as exhausting but he was bored out of his mind. He and Mush had been going room by room and sweeping up all the floors and, while Mush was nice enough, he wasn't very talkative. The lodging house was huge and Mush had warned him that Kloppman was a stickler about sweeping so it was taking forever.

"Hey, Henry," Mush said, just after they had decided to go over the room once more before moving on.

"Yeah?"

"Cowboy said your family had a delicatessen?"

It took Henry a second to remember that Cowboy was Jack because he was still confused about the boys who went by both a nickname and their actual name. He couldn't help his shoulders tensing. Jack had promised that he wouldn't tell anyone about their conversation- that no one would know why he’d been in the alley Specs had found him in. He didn't want people to know.

"Sorry for askin'," Mush mumbled. "He, uh, didn't say nothin' else but he knows I want to open my own one day."

Henry was surprised. Most of the newsies talked about the future in abstract terms, like they didn't want to dream too much in case they didn't make it far enough for the dreams to succeed or fail. Some of the older ones mentioned more immediate plans- the docks, a factory, a farm a little upstate- but as a whole, dreaming didn't seem to be a popular pastime of the newsboys, or at least not one they talked about. It almost surprised him that Mush- quiet, sarcastic, intimidating Mush- would have one so concrete.

“Um, yeah,” Henry said, finally. “My dad opened it a coupla years before I was born.” 

“What was it like?”

Henry paused in his sweeping. It was hard to think about his dad. The wound was still too fresh, even though it had been nearly six months and he should be over it by now. Thinking about his dad meant thinking about the month before he died, when he was laid up in bed, sick and fading and forgetting their names. Thinking about the delicatessen though, that was different. That was remembering happy times- his dad healthy and behind the counter, his mom tsking at the state of the kitchen when she came home from work at the laundry, he and his sisters splashing each other with water while they were supposed to be wiping off tables.

“It was nice. Smaller than Jacobi’s place but always busy. Had a bigger menu. Jacobi doesn’t have sour pickles.”

“Sounds like a swell place.”

“I thought so.”

They were quiet after that and Henry wasn’t sure what to think of that conversation. He had plenty of time to think about it as they finished sweeping though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at makenomistakeoncewewin.


End file.
